


I'm Not Afraid

by pinkpatrick



Category: Fall Out Boy, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: BoyxBoy, F/M, GirlxBoy, I Just Really Love Pete Wentz, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I love him, M/M, Peterick, Stranger Things AU, anyway, but i can't find a place for him that would work, i feel bad not adding andy, i love you andrew, patlisa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkpatrick/pseuds/pinkpatrick
Summary: Elisa's locked up, Patrick's locking lips with his best friend, and Joe is head over heels for a girl with unruly hair. All while something waits to strike.





	1. CHAPTER 1 - THREE HUNDRED FIFTY THREE DAYS

Patrick's warm fingertips were stung by the seemingly everlasting cold of his silver pin, carefully fastened beneath the neckline of his shirt. 'You can't fall in love so young,' was such a bullshit statement. Sure, sixteen was young to find your soulmate, but love isn't some stupid tradition. Not everyone finds someone when they're twenty five, lives in Utopia for a few years, and gets hitched at twenty seven. In fact, that's not even a majority. Name one person besides your rich cousin who had that life planned out for them, and they played it out for themselves to fit into mommy's master plan. If you don't have that cousin, you're probably going to be that cousin. Every day, every single day for three hundred and fifty three days, he was calling her. Calling Elisa, the only girl he's ever been fascinated by. Other than Heather Locklear. 

1984 wasn't the greatest era for technology, but thank god Elisa could see past that. Thank god she could see that. Huddled under the D&D table, the white-hot blankets smothering Patrick were practically keeping him alive. The freezing air even inside the house was overwhelming. The cold bit down with its snaggly fuckin’ teeth on his every square inch of skin uncovered. He ran his hands over the smooth walkie-talkie, and switched to one channel he had formulated for exactly this purpose. Nobody would catch him, right? God, he hoped not. If his mom found out he was talking to girls, much less Elisa... She'd send him down to that lab herself. My son? Talking to girls? Not my son anymore.

"Hey, fuck you," he abruptly cut in, clearing his throat almost instantly afterwards. "You're not even listening, like, I don't get why I don't just scrap this shit for parts, I could, like, fix my radio, and be.. Like, I don't know, six hundred times happier than right now." It didn’t matter if he meant it or not, it’s not like she’d knock on his door after hearing that shit, and demand an explanation. He wasted three hundred and fifty three days of his life, going onto some weird walkie-talkie channel and risking literal arrest, and what did he get out of it? Nothing. It’s like, I Got Involved With The Government And Brought Peace Back To Our Town, And All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt.

In her two years outside the lab, he'd been far too hostile to her, far too often. He constantly had her questioning what was wrong with her, what kind of person she thought she was, but never if he loved her or not. Every second he spent with her. "Hey, El, you need anything? Food? Yeah, I'm.. I'm really sorry we don't have real food for you, but.. Joe brought snacks."

Speaking of, thank god for Joe and his never-ending supply of Dots. Where does he get those Dots? Nobody knows, Patrick's convinced he's, like, buddies with God, and he convinced him to give him ambrosia in the form of gumdrops. Or his aggressively Jewish parents thought they were blessed by a rabbi somehow. He exhaled almost aggressively, and ended the call with nothing but, "It's day three hundred and fifty three. And I'm still not giving up on you." Was she listening? Who knows? She was lost, trapped in the walls of the school, wandering the Upside Down, or maybe she was gone, wandering only his mind in a pit of black.

He wrapped the thick comforters around him neatly, blinking back hot tears, which were commingling in his eyes. Once they fell shut, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Yeah, that's common, but this time, it was an entire fucking anvil, and it had been bound to him with rope that was as potent and as valuable as his friend's life. He knew she was out there, he was certain, he just wasn't sure where.

 

\---

 

Elisa, being a sixteen year old girl, has her arms crossed tight, bound across her chest like a harness she couldn't will herself to unlock. "Why the hell's it taking so long?"

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific, kid," her newfound father practically boomed. He was tall, sandy blonde hair adorned his greasy forehead like a picture frame, and the 'stache didn't help much with the hair problem.

"You know what I'm talking about," she shot back, voice sharp, though far less whiny than before. Her persistence was like a constant jab in the stomach from which nobody could escape.

"We're gonna get you there soon, El. You won't have to see him in your head, yeah? Real life, you can tell him about your, like, adventures in the unknown, I don't care. I- promise you'll get back there soon."

Yeah, thought Elisa. You'll let me go back when I'm rotting in my grave. You'll let me back there, as long as you can break more hearts. Recently released from a lab, she doesn't understand paternal relationships which weren't abusive or manipulative. At every turn, she was glancing over her shoulder and checking for signs of Papa. What is motivation if it's not tearing people limb from limb? Or just to survive? She knew her motivation, it was to survive. It was to return to Patrick and live a happy life, one where she wasn't constantly chased by feral beasts or men who thought of her as a hostage. It was to pop Dots in her pie-hole with Joe, it was to return to Pete, even though he had some vendetta against her. 

It was like they were on either side of a turf war, and Patrick was the turf. And they could both see why, you know. He’s like a human hotbox, he doesn’t take shit from anybody, and his over-emotional tendencies kept him bound to doing what he thought was better for everybody else. And a little for himself, who’s he kidding? All in all, Pete was his friend because he made pasta that God would be jealous of, and Elisa was his friend because nobody else was hers.

Just the thought made her livid, anger coursed through her veins too often in these woods. Tension built up from her feet, upwards into her stomach, and before she could notice anything else, there was a warm, sticky substance leaking from her nose, and a blinding headache cutting into her nerves. In a daze, she glanced up from her seated position on the hardwood, eyes landing on one fateful, halfway-unraveled sock. It was like her own mind had a mind of its own, working against her, but not really. What evil mind wills you to have cold feet? That’s sinister. Aha, you will no longer be as warm as you like in your boots. Quake in fear, for I am your alien mind. Ignoring it was probably the wisest thing to do, I mean, what’re you gonna do, weave your sock back? She wiped her nose roughly, straight across with her index finger, and dragged the residue onto her now useless sock. Elisa slowly began to accept something that had been shoved onto her plate for an approximate three hundred and fifty three days. She was gonna have to spend in a minute in hell to get back to heaven.

 

\---

 

Patrick’s next day at school entails as follows: literal harassment, constant viewing of other’s harassment, and an unwelcome member of the tribe. Yes, he’s a sophomore, and, yes. He still did have a few issues about the party. It was exclusive, and it was hard to get in. Since the forming of said party, only a few have remained, and he was looking to keep it that way. It’s like they traveled in a pack. Like girls going to the bathroom, except there was only one girl, and they didn’t pee together, or whatever girls do in there that requires a team. But Joe, valiant as ever, had taken a liking to one girl. Marie. That was stupid as shit, by the way. She beat him at Dig Dug, yelled at him in her weird, shrill voice, and disappeared into the night. Just like that, he had heart-eyes that couldn’t be replicated by the best of them.

“That’s literal bullshit,” Joe’s expression read like a book, and it said, ‘fuck you and your exclusionary self.’ But, more importantly, he said himself, “Like, a bull just came up and shat in my hand, cause he wanted to, like, one-up you on your bullshit.”

At this point, Patrick’s surprised his eyes don’t hurt, you know, cause he’s rolling them at record speed. "Dude, she's a girl, I'd bet you twenty fucking million dollars she's never heard of D&D." Yeah, he might be stereotyping a little bit, or a lot. But in his mind, there's a reason stereotypes exist. Like, nobody just decided one day that a lot of gay people had a better fashion sense than your average Joe. That's just the way it turns out, nine times out of ten. Unhealthy, sure, but fatally true.

Joe's look of anger suddenly morphed into one of hurt. "You're an asshole, Patrick Stumph." It became increasingly clear to Joe that Patrick was excluding her because she was a girl. Or, at least, that's what he thought. "She'd beat your ass at D&D, dude, she doesn't even have to know what it's about. She's just that much fucking cooler than you are."

You know when something so out of the blue hits you, and normally, you could destroy the other person's bullshit point with an utterance of, like, two words? But, you can't right now, because your best friend just flashed you all your flaws, and he didn't even need to try that hard. Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, which was far more unusual than you'd think. Loud-mouthed Patrick Stumph never had to think about what to say, right? He'd just open up and something miscellaneous would hop out like vomit, but it wasn't a huge problem, you know. Because nine out of ten times, he agreed with it, because it was formulated somewhere in his brain before it high-tailed itself out of there.

At the moment, all that hopped out was a small, taken-aback grunt that nobody had heard in quite some time. "Dude," he started, clearing his throat like he was preparing for something far more difficult than a few words, "What the fuck? What's your problem?"

Fighting was probably Joe's least-developed skill, and if you wanted.. Well, even if you wanted to or not, you could admit it was a weakness. He got too angry too fast, picked fights when they were unnecessary, and his most devastating retorts had some kind of 'your mom' joke intertwined into the statement. He took a deep breath laced with indignancy, pushed his curls back, and tried his very hardest not to lose his friend. "Dude, you added El less than a fuckin' day after we met her, cause you were, like, obsessed with her."

"I was not--" Patrick stuttered, his blubbering demeanor diminishing what appeared to be confidence at an alarming rate.

"I'm talking, Patrick. Jesus Christ. I don't fucking care if she's in the party, I want her over tonight, and so does Pete. Majority rules. And if you pull any of that 'my house, my rules,' shit again, I swear to God, I will throw that big rock in my yard through your car door."

Silence fell for a solid fifteen seconds, mostly because that was something Patrick could respect. He may have sworn off girls, he may have put his walls up, but Joe didn't, and it was shitty to separate him from what he wanted to do. Hope he doesn't do her at the house, though, that would be bad for literally everybody who's ever set foot there. Mrs. Stumph would be interrogating people who were plus-ones to her backyard wedding twenty years ago, not to mention sterilize every single one of her children. Reproduction? Not on my watch.

"Okay, yeah," he finally pushed out. If you looked at him, and didn't know basic biology, you'd think even his vocal cords were limp with defeat. "Go ask her out, dude, she can, like, play if she wants." Now that they were sophomores, they considered themselves, 'too cool for trick or treating.' Because a few extra years instantly shave off every ounce of not-cool. In fact, in order to celebrate their new installation of 'cool juice,' their Hallow's Eve would be spent playing Dungeons and Dragons, because nothing else says elite and cool like a role-playing game.

Joe's expressions were pretty colorful today. They've gone from defensive, to hurt, defensive again, and now, a mixture of bliss and misbelief. He blinked a few times, as if once his vision adjusted, Patrick would change his mind. He cleared his throat, patted Patrick's round, doughy shoulder with a heavy hand, and made a beeline for Marie's locker. Joe had become what he hated, you know. Not in the deep sort of sense, but he hated dudes who acted like they were James Dean, just because they had the shades to go with it. But at the moment, he understood. He was walking on air, spinning on his heels like MJ, convinced that everyone had their eyes on him. He's priceless. You wanna touch him? That's twenty dollars.

Cool is something that you feel, not really something you convey. You could especially tell, mostly because Joe was really feeling it, but Marie was not. Trohman's Jackson spins required a few false starts or fumbles on his part, and Goble's locker was quite literally around fifteen feet away. FIfteen feet is not a great amount of space for a few trial runs, accompanied by the real deal. Why, you ask? Because Marie saw every single attempt.

Joe and his near-perfect posture (as beaten into him by his parents) stood directly in front of Marie's locker door, which stood ajar. Maybe you wouldn't guess it with just a look at him, but he wasn't that great with girls. He knows, he looks like a chick magnet. He knows. The Jew-fro and the big nose, accompanied by his lisp? Oh, God, he's got ladies lining down the block, like a male, heterosexual Fergie.

He cleared his throat, but it wasn’t like he needed to get her attention. He had it, whether it was a good thing or not was questionable.

"What?" She smiled politely, looking him up and down. Almost like a slightly less judgy body-check. She could have said something other than, ‘what,’ you know, but 40% of her is forcing the polite demeanor she’s putting out. You could call her fashion forward, or fashion backwards, because either one would work. Crop tops were her way of taking back her body from the everliving patriarchy, although they were the only article of clothing that seemed to demand catcalling from passersby. You could call it feminist, you could call it 60s Chic, or you could call it stupid. Though Joe wasn't exactly her pick of the patch, it was painfully obvious there was something he wanted her to join him in.

Joe and his lady-killing lisp spoke up after a few moments of unneeded silence. This is gonna sound so fuckin' dumb, but he's here for it, and it's not going away. "What're you doing for, uh-- Halloween?" It was like his craft that he honed was not writing, or anything that contributed to society. It was fumbling words in front of pretty girls.

"What?" She smiled politely, looking him up and down. Almost like a slightly less judgy body-check. She would have said more than, 'what,' you know, but about forty percent of her is really forcing that politeness she's putting out. You could call her fashion forward, or fashion backwards, because either one would work. Crop tops were her way of taking back her body from the everliving patriarchy, although they were the only article of clothing that seemed to demand catcalling from passersby. You could call it feminist, you could call it 60s Chic, or you could call it stupid. Though Joe wasn't exactly her pick of the patch, it was painfully obvious there was something he wanted her to join him in.

Joe and his lady-killing lisp spoke up after a few moments of unneeded silence. This is gonna sound so fuckin' dumb, but he's here for it, and it's not going away. "What're you doing for, uh-- Halloween?" It was like his craft that he honed was not writing, or anything that contributed to society. It was fumbling words in front of pretty girls.

"Oh, um.. I don't know, not much," she answered with a small smile, throwing Joe off by about sixty percent. Name another time when she's smiled at anybody. Oh, yeah, you can't.

"The party, y'know, voted that you could come over to Pat's house, for.. For Dungeons and Dragons. He's the Dungeon Master, so, you're not gonna wanna miss it." Oh, how could anyone possibly refuse him? Now that she knows Patrick is the Dungeon Master, it would be a crime to turn him away, don't you think?

Marie tapped her toe like a metronome to his impending rejection, until she spoke up, "You guys held a vote." Her voice downturned into one with more of an attitude, you could say. "You hold votes to see who can hang out with you?" Her voice was cutting deep, and it was almost like it was some over-extended scoff that she's playing on repeat.

"Yeah, I mean, we gotta clear it with-"

"Was it unanimous?" She cut in. It wasn't about the vote, and it wasn't about the event, it was more about what nerds held votes for something like that. Don't misunderstand, she's not trying to be cruel, she's simply outspoken, and Joe sort of has a thing for people who'll call him out on his bullshit. It doesn't matter if it's polite or not, often it isn't. It's what he wants, and it's what he needs, but if there's one thing he won't admit to, it's that.

"What?" His tongue was dry, his toes were curling in.

"Did everybody want me there?" Her voice grew more insistent, she didn't bother beating around the bush.

"Yeah, yeah," he lied breathlessly, clearing his throat a few extra times.


	2. CHAPTER 2 - TINY DANCER

Brenner's stark white locks were like something picked out of a cloud on a sunny day. It was almost funny, you know. Close workers and colleagues constantly laughed, in secret, of course, about how his appearance gave such a false sense of security. In secrecy mostly because if it weren't, he'd give them the warm, secure embrace of sheer pain. Thirteen years of studying Elisa was not enough, you know. Sixteen years didn't teach him how to use her the way he needed, sixteen years didn't give him some all-knowing gene, but what it did give him was an incredible vantage point.

For sixteen years, he moderated her with a watchful eye, in and out of the room. Reports and video were nothing compared to the real thing, because the sheer power of this little girl could not be captured on video the way it is when you're standing next to her. Torture? Out of the question. Encouragement? That's a little closer to the ballpark.

A cleared throat and a sharp bark of a voice sounded and ricocheted against the corners of the empty room, piercing through the ears of anyone and everyone within a ten-foot radius. "Watkins, if you are so incompetent that you--"

"No, no, I can--" he gasped, hand flying to clap over his mouth. "It.. Happened."

Now that it's happened, all they need to do is build it up. Just to go from unraveling socks to unraveling minds.

 

\---

 

It was a mystery whatever the actual hell went on inside Marie's mind. Even to those closest to her, it was still a wild guess, a gamble that they could never quite go all in on. It's not too dramatic, but lo and behold, her footsteps were echoing over the freshly rolled-out gravel of Maine Street. Those adventurous feet were no strangers to this road, unlike Patrick and Joe's. They were Maine Street virgins, you could say, mostly because, holy shit, three cars just ran over a single kid at once, he's dead, and nobody knows who to call. "Hey, losers!" She bounded down the street like she was born to, the sharp noise of her feet bounding ringing in just about everybody's ears. The street was crowded, not only with cars, but children covered head-to-ankle in fitted sheets and stark-white makeup.

Naturally, when you’re a human with any sense of self, and you just so happen to be Patrick and Joe, you don’t plan on staying out here. Patrick’s house was located two roads over, and maybe they were trying to mix it up this time, maybe they were trying to die. Either way, any thoughts that could be considered wise were thrown out the window. Which they both pictured to be an extravagant, impractical one, like a porthole, on a house in Los Angeles.

“Losers!” Marie repeated, as if that were their only title, or a name they’d known since birth. Marie might have been footloose and fancy-free, but why grant anyone else that privilege? Maybe it was a name they’d known forever, though, you know, because that was when Joe decided to whip his head back around and notice her. 

“Dude,” he breathed out, astonished. Why? I don’t know, ask him. She could breathe, and he’d be left in wonder, thinking about how on earth she did it. She was an enigma to him, but the true enigma was why he thought of her like that. Joe nudged Patrick’s doughy arm, near the arm-butt. Hah.

“What?” He glanced up at him, eyebrow quirked into its usual spot. Irritation seemed like it was his go-to, it was like, ‘resting bitch face,’ was personified and abbreviated to ‘resting bitch.’ If you think about it, it’s easy to be a bitch, just cut out all the niceties and there you have it.

Joe liked to think that he was the male lead in a romantic comedy when he saw Marie, so that’s why he said absolutely nothing when he turned to look at her. 

Thank God Pete was running ahead, if he was back here, he would find a completely valid reason to cut Joe off from all civilization. He wouldn’t even have to look that hard, and it’s sad. 

Patrick sighed like it was the genuine apocalypse, but he couldn’t find the effort to open his dad’s gun safe. ‘Just take me now,’ was the general vibe. “Wentz!” He hollered, hoarse, at the figure standing in the Stumph doorway. Hoarse because of the simple fact that all he does is scream. Though, he probably should be used to it at this point. Can’t his cells grow back or replicate stronger or something? That’s how mitosis works, right? No? Perfect. 

“Oh, my God, what?” He turned back, looking the reason for his frustration straight in the face. And there stood Marie Goble.

Marie trotted up to Joe, heavy feet clapping on the street. “You still playin’ D&D?” She tucked her messy, frazzled hair behind her ear, eyes wide and curious.

“No,” Joe deadpanned. “We’re meeting at Patrick’s because we hate D&D, and we’re gonna form a hate club. You better be in, nerd.”

Seems logical enough, yeah? She rolls her eyes, nose crinkled to its fullest extent as she pushed past him. She knew Joe was into her, how do you miss it when you brush shoulders on Halloween, probably the least romantic holiday of all time, and some boy can’t stop baring his teeth? Doesn’t matter if it’s a smile, bears used it as a sign of aggression, I think.

By the time Marie yanked a wandering Joe inside, Patrick had pushed Pete in the house so forcefully that he’s probably crippled, like Professor X. Were his legs broken, or was it his back? Can’t remember. The way you would play this game was as if there were a gun to your head, in the sense that you couldn’t stop if you wanted to. That’s kind of insightful, because that’s what it was.

Patrick’s footsteps had already echoed down the creaky stairs, and into the basement he’s pretty sure somebody was murdered in, but it wasn’t creepy. It set the mood, you know? Pete followed at his heels, the way he does when he’s convinced he’s got a chance with him.

“Patrick, I swear to God, I’m gonna get all my friends, like, scooped up, by girls with weird hair, doesn’t even matter how hard I try.” His voice was rough, but more vulnerable than usual. Jealousy seemed to be seeping through the bottom, he hopes it doesn’t get to his lunch or something. “El had a weird buzz cut, like, where’s she getting that buzz cut? No mom, no dad. And Marie’s never heard of a damn comb, her bangs are gonna turn into dreadlocks in a matter of minutes. Dip ‘em in honey, or something, and she’s golden.”

Patrick ran a pair of plump-fingered, nimble hands through his hair, tugging at a few strands like he was ready to rip open his skin. Unfortunately, heads don’t have hinges or any shit like that, so he’s just left dreaming. “Peter, you had dreads, like, six months ago.” Shit, he used the Peter Card. 

“Yeah, but she’s white, and I think it’s fair to say it’s not her look.”

“What makes it your look?” Patrick never thought he’d be defending Marie’s hair out of all things, but oppositional defiance is a thing, and Pete gets all his attitude. “Hitting people with ‘em?”

Pete laughed hard, toppling over forwards, like a Jenga tower with increasingly bad luck. “Fuck,” he pulled out a chair and scooted in towards the table, leaving little to no room to breathe for himself. “Dude, that was funny as fuck, and you know it. Could inspire a great American novel, or, like, comic book line. Dread Dude’s gonna be in theaters by 2000.”

If Dread Dude lived long enough to pitch it, Jesus Christ. “Dread Dude,” Patrick repeated, the clatter of feet scrambling downstairs appearing to be his biggest problem at the moment. “Pete, I hope you’re fuckin’ serious, because in the year 2000, I’m gonna write that movie script, and I’ll sue if you don’t star in it.”

“Sue for what? You can’t sue me, idiot.”

“Emotional trauma, dude. It’ll stress me out so bad, I’ll get an ulcer, and ultimately, all your money.”

Pete wasn’t about to deny its clever nature, he was always ready to tell somebody how wrong he was. “Shit, dude, if I don’t hit robbers with giant dreads, you’re gonna get an ulcer? I love you, too.”

You know how your dad pats your back when you’re walking with him? If you don’t, you’re fine, if not lucky. Casual, yet the weirdest fucking thing. Right on your shoulder blades, but way too far to the right to be comfortable, especially if you’re packing literally any meat on your bones. It might seem like bringing this up is completely pointless, and you’d be right, if Joe didn’t make the worst decision of his life. It wasn’t keeping an actual demogorgon, a thing of nightmares, in a tank meant for lizards or tortoises. It was patting Marie’s right shoulder blade like he was her father.

As mentioned above, Halloween is the holiday that Is most devoid of romantic quality. To Patrick’s dismay and Patrick’s dismay only, heart eyes were predominant around the table. Joe had heart eyes for Marie, who had heart eyes for Pete, who undeniably had heart eyes for Patrick since day one. And that’s why he needed to get the game started ASAP.

 

—-

 

When she blinked open her eyes, Elisa was sitting on the porch of the cabin, legs sprawled out in front of her like she was a rag doll. Limp and unprepared for the world ahead. It was dark, it was cold, it was damp, and she felt the need to scramble to her feet, but she couldn’t move, she couldn’t feel. You don’t know what cold is until you’ve gotten frostbite, and she’s crossing her fingers she doesn’t have to learn what cold is tonight. Broken glass sat between her ankles, which were miles apart. Drops of water saturated in the boards hung above her head fell and dispersed on her hairline, seeping and sneaking onto her scalp. 

Suddenly, warmth returned to her body, blood flow was no stranger to her anymore, and she could feel nothing and everything. If you've ever tied a hair band around your finger and cut off your circulation, you know the white-hot feeling of blood returning to your finger. To the few of you who are insane enough to do this, that feeling is the sensation spreading throughout her entire body.

“What the f—“ It was a cliche, but she didn’t have enough will to finish her last word. Her memory of, apparently, venturing outside was not something she recognized in the least. She hadn’t been out in months, she swears. Shards of glass, too? Glass. She hadn’t been out of the lab for many years, maybe not even an entire year, but she knows that’s bad news for everyone involved, and she seems to be the only one involved.

Oh, how hopelessly she was mistaken. 

 

—-

 

If giving up had a name, it would be Patrick. To specify, he gave up on Elisa’s return, and he gave up on trying for what he wanted. She could be dead, she could be hiding in South America if she really wanted to, and would he know? He’d never be a first priority to her again, if he ever was in the first place. ‘Again’ might have been too presumptuous a word choice. 

In the weeks following the dreaded Dungeons and Dragons hangout, you could hardly ever find a time of day in which Pete and Patrick weren’t trying to suck each other’s faces off. If you knew anything about Patrick, you knew he didn’t want this forever, nor did he think about Pete when he was drifting off to sleep, but he was there, and Elisa wasn’t. It was almost a joke in the party, you know. Take a drink every time Pete’s grabbing an ass. Take a shot every time Patrick insists heavily that he wears the pants, and asserts his nonexistent dominance.

You could call him a slut, you could call him promiscuous, you could call him anything you wanted, and you’d be right. Poor Patrick Stump had lost the love of his life at the hands of a literal thing of nightmares. Not only that but he was sixteen and horny, which isn’t a hardship, but you could justify the whole Pete thing a tiny bit better with just that added detail. Patrick’s days were filled with trivial classes he’d never use again, assessing his moral alignment approximately three times on average, and making out to Elton John in Pete’s busted Mercedes.

“Think you could have inspired this song, Rick,” Pete flashed that shit-eating grin of his, but it was far more genuine than you would have expected. Unlike Patrick, Pete’s view on their active sex life was not based on convenience. It was based on anything but. Love would be an extreme word for it, but it wouldn’t be completely wrong.

“Tiny Dancer? Fuck you,” Patrick scoffed, mumbling against Pete’s warm skin, directly before sucking on it again. Pete tilted his head back out of instinct, for easier access, mostly because being new to this was out of the question. No, he knew what Patrick wanted, at almost all times.

“No, seriously,” Pete sat up, forcing Patrick to pull off, much to his dismay. “You’re, like, every damn pop song about love that’s ever been broadcasted.” Pete had such a way with words, but reciting these lines would have been far better if it weren’t someone he was so vulnerable around. “Got fuckin’ oceans for eyes, Stump. It’s insane, you can see literally every inch of it in those things.”

Patrick really had to get thinking; did Pete think they were falling in love or something?

“Shut up,” he shook his head like his beauty was preposterous, or, at least, that’s how Pete saw it. Patrick just saw it as, ‘Shut up.’

“You love it,” he laughed. “Your fuckin’ lips, dude. It’s like an angel just — kissed ‘em until they were just right.”

“You’re actually ridiculous, Pete Wentz.” He pulled Pete back towards him with a fistful of his shirt’s fabric, kissing on his lips like there was no break in between. 

For some reason, Pete thought this was Patrick’s fantasy, too. He wanted Patrick to never get enough of him, to always be chomping at the bit. Not only that, but he wanted him to fall in love, like it was something reasonable that you could negotiate for. Imagine negotiating for your salary and threatening to leave if the CEO didn’t fall madly in love with you. He was convinced that this was the way love worked, and he was along for the ride. If Pete gave him what he wanted, he was bound to feel butterflies, right? An exchange of goods, the way you see onscreen. That movie Can’t Buy Me Love was a documentary, right?

Pete had been in love, and Patrick had lost the idea of it altogether. Pete was so deep in the love his mind had created, the one he thought Patrick returned, that he couldn’t see anything around him. Patrick was his passion, his hopes, his dreams, just because he sat there and spewed sarcasm in response to heartfelt confessions. He was too lost in the blur of Patrick’s incessant hand-holding and lips pressing on his. That’s what you do when you’re in love. You intertwine your portly fingers, and you smile, because you’ve never wanted anything more. Patrick says he knows what that feels like, because he does. But he’s just vague enough so Pete doesn’t notice, it’s never been him. 

In fact, there wasn't anything Patrick could do that Pete wouldn't turn a blind eye to. Patrick could scream at the top of his lungs that Pete was not allowed in his life, he didn't love him in any way, shape, or form, and that he made his life a living hell. And you know all that would do? It would force Pete to rethink himself, and then continue to pursue Patrick's attention. Pete's love was a tricky thing to navigate, and Patrick definitely didn't have it down to the science he thought he did. You got oceans for eyes, Stump. It's insane, you can see literally every inch of it in those things.


End file.
